


the right question

by theherocomplex



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Romance, Xayah's abandonment issues are the real main character here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 19:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15395328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: Grievous bodily harm does have a way of putting things into perspective.





	the right question

There are several things Xayah wants to say, but the amount of blood in her general vicinity — most of it not hers, which is something new — keeps anything except "You're an idiot" from coming out of her mouth. She's said it three times in the past five minutes, the last time right after she sent up a bright spray of feathers in a call for help. A call that has not, as of yet, been answered. 

Rakan groans and lets his head fall back. "So," he wheezes, without opening his eyes. "This is pretty terrible. I don't recommend it."

Xayah almost laughs. Laughter would be good right about now; it'd be a distraction from what might be the worst day of her life, and the fact that she's actually thinking along those lines. She was not supposed to worry about this peacocking moron. She was not supposed to _care_. She was _definitely not_ supposed to be the one thing keeping him from bleeding out.

 _Why did you have to follow me?_ she thinks, almost screaming inside her head. _I didn't ask you to stay. So why?_

In the end, she doesn't laugh. She just presses the wadded cloth against the wound and keeps watch and wracks her brain for _something_ resembling healing magic.

And, for the fourth time: "You're an idiot."

"Yep," says Rakan, way too agreeably for a person whose internal organs are being held inside his body with hope and someone else's hands. "But at least I'm still beautiful. I am still beautiful, right?"

***

_What are you doing here? You nearly got yourself killed!_

_"Nearly"'s the operative word! Besides, you looked like you needed some help._

_Get your eyes checked, friend. I was doing fine._

_Sure you were! But you have to admit, we're better together._

_Leaving now._

_Hey! Wait up!_

***

There were, at last count, fourteen different versions of how she and Rakan met. Or, more accurately, fourteen different versions _Rakan_ told, and each one was more ridiculous than the last. There was the daring hanging-off-a-cliff rescue, there was the outnumbered-nine-to-one battle, there was the moonlit treetop duel, which featured a lot of _her eyes and feathers were more brilliant than the stars_ and not a lot of the actual truth. But the truth isn't as good a story — she rolled into town to steal back vastayan relics, he provided a useful distraction, and then sort of saved her life when her clever escape turned out to be not-so-clever.

At least in his versions, he usually let her do the rescuing.

 _Do you have to do this?_ she asked, after almost two months of traveling together. They'd just left another village, where her stumping for recruits had yielded the usual results, until Rakan jumped in with the cliff-rescue story, and suddenly people were willing to give her, and what she was asking, a second chance. _It's not real. I never — I didn't —_

_I can read a crowd, Xayah, and you'd almost lost that one. Think of me as your hype man! I get 'em riled up and ready to listen. You know, the hard work. Then you can come in, make your sell, and BOOM! It's a done deal._

He'd smiled at her, crooked and warm, and she'd been glad for the low, smoky fire, because she'd almost smiled back.

You didn't give away anything you couldn't afford to lose. And she had nothing, nothing but the cause. If she'd ever had anything else, it had been gone years before Rakan showed up.

***

Xayah swallows, and tastes iron and copper. A vastayan can take a lot of damage and keep going, lose half their blood and stay fighting, but stomach wounds are never good news. Rakan took the worst one she's ever seen.

"Was it this cold before those guys tried to kill us?" Rakan asks, out of nowhere. Xayah looks up and finds him watching her, pale and wide-eyed. He still manages a fair imitation of his usual grin, though the effect's ruined by the white pain-lines on either side of his mouth.

How he's lasted this long, in this much pain, without passing out — she doesn't know. She couldn't have managed it.

Xayah shakes her head. She's sweating under her hood, thanks to the sun beating down on her back. "It's shock," she says, because she's always been bad at speeches, especially the comforting ones. Why bother trying now?

 _Because he deserves a little comfort. The hit_ was _meant for me, after all._

Rakan wrinkles his nose at her. "Oh, good. I was almost worried for a second." He closes his eyes again. A few seconds later, his face twists and he lets out a low, teeth-bared groan. "Okay," he adds, voice dropping. "I'm a little worried."

 _It'll be fine. I'll take care of you._ But the words get lost, somewhere between her head and her mouth.

***

She was damn careful not to give Rakan so much as a look that he might take as an invitation, and yet every morning dawned with him rolled up in his blankets across the fire. And she never made so much as a peep when he went off with some local who was up for a bit of fun, on their rare nights at an actual inn. Rakan would come down in the mornings, stretching and preening like a cat with a full belly, lover's-bruises all over his neck and chest, and Xayah would simply not give a shit. She wouldn't _let_ herself give a shit. He wasn't her lover, or her friend; he was barely an _ally_ , so why should she care who he bedded, and when?

 _Do you_ ever _let yourself relax?_ he'd asked once, in a rare show of exasperation. _Just for a minute? Or is it just The Cause, The Cause?_

Xayah just stared at him, thinking of the first rock a human had thrown at her, the first time a fist had closed around a handful of her feathers. After a moment, Rakan realized he'd crossed a line, and disappeared with a mumbled apology. She thought for sure he'd leave for good then, and she hadn't given herself a chance to feel one way or another about it. Just paid up with the innkeeper, for both herself and Rakan, and packed up her maps and bedroll.

He caught up with her just south of town, almost sheepish, and she hadn't let herself consider the warmth that sparked deep beneath her ribs. But that night, she let him take the first watch without arguing when he offered, and fell asleep to him humming quietly in the dark.

***

Rakan hasn't said anything for almost five minutes. He's still breathing, but it's shallow and light; Xayah's no healer, but she knows that's a bad sign. She can keep conjuring bandages to soak up the blood, but other than that, she's useless. Rakan, this _idiot_ who saved her life, for no good reason she can see, is going to die in a dank little valley and it's going to be her fault.

"I should have been faster," she says, as close as she can get to an apology. "Then you wouldn't have —"

"Stop," Rakan whispers, hoarse and almost inaudible. "Don't take this away from me."

Xayah's breath catches. "Take _what_ away?"

"My daring rescue. It'll be a great story — the humble entertainer, saving the life of the beautiful, mysterious rebel. Can't wait to tell it." He coughs, groaning again. "Might be my greatest hit," he murmurs, then falls silent again.

Xayah waits — Rakan never lets a joke go until he's squeezed it dry — but he doesn't say anything. Doesn't move, either, and only when she puts her ear close to his chest does she hear his weak, thready heartbeat.

***

He was beautiful. No sense in arguing that. Sleek and golden and surprisingly strong, and warm, too, like a miniature sun. Fast. Graceful. Dangerous.

So why not bed him? The road was long, and cold, and sooner or later this war of hers was going to get her very, very dead. Rakan wouldn't mind her taking a little comfort in a tumble — he'd been obvious enough all these months, with his glances and supposedly-subtle hints about the _efficiency of sharing body heat_. He'd be a good bedmate, too, generous and funny and not at all possessive.

So? What was she waiting for?

Rakan even asked her so himself, one cold night after the snares hadn't yielded anything for three days, and they were chewing mint leaves to try and calm their stomachs. _I'm right here, Xayah, so what are you waiting for?_

She'd thought he was joking. He never did anything else, right? Always laughing, joking, telling stories, _singing._ There was a part of her just starting to thaw, a part of her growing beyond the need to fight and hate and _win_ , and if she gave that away and he left —

No. Better not to give in, better not to give that part a name. It would wither on its own if she ignored it long enough.

She chanced a look in his direction a few minutes later, after he'd sighed and flopped on his bedroll. His feathers ruffled gently in the night wind, the gold dimmed to silver by the half-moon overhead.

He was so beautiful.

 _I'm waiting for you to leave,_ she said, after she was sure he'd fallen asleep.

***

As hard as she tried, she couldn't lie to herself. She _liked_ having him at her back, a whirlwind of gold and laughter, every move he made a counterpoint to hers. They could lock eyes across the battlefield, and she would feel his heart beating in time with her own.

A stupid, sentimental thing to think, like something out of a song. She closed her mind to it, refused to listen. But he was there, he was _always_ there, and when she moved, he moved, like a matched pair of daggers.

***

There are spells to knit flesh and bone back together. Her father knew a handful, and used the golden, dancing weaves to sew up her skinned knees and split lips whenever she came running to him in tears.

How pathetic is it she remembers his magic, but not his face? And how can she remember every insult some piece of shit human threw her way, but not a single spell that might actually _help_?

She looks out toward the village, but the path up the valley is empty. Of course it is. _Help us,_ they said, _save us from the shadows in the valley, and we'll hear what you have to say._ And she'd jumped at the chance to prove herself, to sway a few more to her side, and now — now look where it's gotten them.

It's only six or seven miles. Two hours, there and back. She could make it.

Rakan won't. So Xayah stays, watching every change in his expression, her throat closing when his eyes shut. When he groans, something small and quiet in her chest snaps, and she spreads her wing over his body because it's the only thing she thinks may help. If nothing else, she can keep him warm.

He makes a surprised noise when her feathers brush his skin, and another when she moves one hand up to rest over his heart. Then his hand curves around the back of her head, and turns her to look at him.

Rakan's smiling.

Xayah waits for the joke — there's _always_ a joke — but it never comes. His thumb moves in a slow circle, his hand is steady, and he just keeps smiling. At her, for her, until pain distorts his expression and his hand falls in a fist to the ground.

***

 _Why are you_ still _here, Rakan?_

_I'm a man of many mysteries!_

_Fine._

_Aw, don't be like that. Secrets are part of my charm!_

_You just keep telling yourself that._

***

The sun slips toward the far horizon. Xayah's fingers are tacky with dried blood, and the bandage under her palms is nearly dry. She sees the cookfire smoke from the village out of the corner of her eye and has to force down a scream. They're so _close_ to safety, to a healer, and if she wasn't sure it would kill him, she'd have thrown Rakan over her shoulders and carried him up the path herself.

It's here, that moment she's been waiting for since Rakan first walked at her side. He's leaving, like she told herself he would — but _gods_ , she'd only imagined him walking away, still singing, still dancing. He wasn't supposed to _die._ Not like this. Not for her.

Xayah came to terms with herself a long time ago. She'll never be remembered as a hero, no matter how this war ends. She's gone too far, too often; she never forgave a single slight, never missed an opportunity to hate. She is not, by any definition, a good person.

Not that Rakan is any saint — he's vain and snide and sometimes unexpectedly cruel, a razor hidden in silk — but his life for hers seems like a colossally unfair trade.

"I don't want you to go," she says, now that it's safe, now that he can't hear her. "I want you to _stay_ , Rakan. What do I have to do?"

He doesn't answer. There's blood at the corner of his mouth, stark against the pallor of his skin. Xayah presses her palm against his chest, a distant roar building in her ears, and nearly collapses against him when a faint heartbeat meets her touch.

It doesn't matter. Xayah doesn't know if he'll make it to sunset, but the night's cold will take him even if blood loss doesn't. Her pathetic little flares meant nothing, just like her calls for help. She can't even save one life.

Xayah screams, once, more in frustration than grief — there'll be time for that later, plenty of time, but when was the last time she let herself _fail_? — and then again, and again.

She's shaking when her voice finally goes silent, but Rakan hasn't moved. Doesn't move. But he's still breathing, his bare skin cool and smooth beneath her hand.

***

_Hey Xayah, you wanna dance?_

_Stop joking around and pay attention._

_No,_ you _pay attention. To_ me. _I'm amazing!_

_You're ruining my ambush._

_You're ruining the mood!_

_Then leave._

_*_

_You don't mean that._

_*_

_Try me._

***

Xayah only hears the cracking twigs because she's holding her breath, listening for his heartbeat.

Whirling, she conjures three gleaming feathers into her hand purely on instinct, ready to loose them as soon as she knows _where_ , and nearly drops them when two panting villagers in healers' robes come into view.

"We saw —" The elder healer bends over, gasping for breath. "We saw the flares. We came — fast as we could. Where —" The younger healer is already in motion, pulling flasks from her belt and pushing Xayah gently but firmly away.

"Stomach wound, a nasty one!" she calls. "Are they still bringing the litter?"

The elder healer nods, pointing back down the way they came. "I hear them coming. Get that potion in him, Iselte, fast as you can, now."

"It doesn't matter," Xayah says. She's still holding the last bloody bandage. "He's gone. He left."

Iselte gives her a strange look, ears drawing back in confusion, but she doesn't pause in uncorking two flasks and tipping them into Rakan's mouth. "He's bad off, but it's not time to give up yet."

"He —" Xayah shakes her head. "What?"

Rakan renders her question moot by sitting up with a strangled yell, clutching at his stomach. He's pop-eyed, shivering, but undeniably _alive_. He smiles, like an idiot, as soon as his eyes find her face.

"My _hero_ ," he says, while Iselte huffs. "The great and unstoppable Xay — _ah_!"

She throws her arms around his neck, ignoring Iselte's squawking and tugging at her arm. "You idiot," she hisses into his ear. "You don't die for _me._ You _can't_."

"Hey," he says, coughing a little as his arms wrap around her. His breath reeks from the potions, but Xayah doesn't care, just hugs him closer. "I told you, I'm too pretty to die."

"Oh gods, not this again." But she's laughing, and she can feel his smile against her cheek. 

"We need to get him to the village," Iselte says plaintively, still pulling at Xayah's arm. "Please, we need to heal him."

"Hold on a sec," Rakan says, his voice stronger with every word. "We're having a _moment_. I think. Are we having a moment?"

"Just shut up for _once_ ," says Xayah, squeezing her eyes shut. Then, because he almost died, she adds, "Yes. We're having a moment."

" _Finally_." Before she can punch him — which is probably for the best, because of the almost-dying thing — Rakan presses his face into her neck, and lets out a long, shuddering breath against her skin.

"Hey Xayah," he whispers. "You think scars are sexy, right? 'Cause this one is gonna be _amazing_."

"Can't wait to see it," she whispers back, grinning when she feels his breath catch.

_***_

_You want to know why I don't answer when you ask me why I'm staying?_

_Sure, I'll bite. Why?_

_Because that's not what you're asking._

_Oh, it's not? Silly me, not knowing what I_ really _mean. Thanks for clearing that up._

_I'm not going anywhere, Xayah._

_We'll see about that._

_We will._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Come talk to me on [Tumblr!](http://theherocomplex.tumblr.com)


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